In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  Advisor Borell, the most important man in Sileria, was bellowing at some servant when Koroll entered the crowded room, then continued sharpening his tongue on every man who crossed his path as he strode across the vast hall toward Koroll. He was an enormous man, broad enough around the girth to account for two healthy men. Yet, despite a life of luxury and a well-known taste for pleasure, he gave the impression that his enormous bulk was more muscle than fat. A mature man who still had many productive years left before him, he was shrewd, ambitious, and ruthless when it suited him.

  His neatly-trimmed beard, Koroll noted, was just starting to turn gray, as was his close-cropped hair. Brushing off the servant who tried to hand him a goblet of wine, Borell glared directly into Koroll's eyes, his steely blue gaze sparkling with anger, and demanded, "Why did he have you arrested?"

  Surprised, Koroll stammered, "Your Eminence? I don't quite underst—"

  "It's a simple question, you fool!" Borell leaned close and repeated, as if speaking to a half-witted child with whom he had lost all patience, "Why did Daroll have you arrested?"

  Treading carefully, wondering what was going on, Koroll answered, "We disagreed about the best way to handle the uprising in my district, Eminence."

  "Indeed? And what were your thoughts on the matter?"

  Something about Borell's manner suggested to Koroll that his very life depended upon his answer. Praying to the Three that it was the right response, he said, "I felt harsher measures were needed than did Commander Daroll. I felt that his plan to solicit information with bribes would prove largely unrewarding due to traditional Silerian—"

  "You warned him about this? You told him—"

  "Warned him about what, Eminence?" Koroll asked, desperate for information.

  Borell's face darkened with renewed rage. "Yes, you've been locked up, haven’t you? You wouldn't know."

  "Sir?"

  "Daroll is dead. So are the one hundred fifty men he took with him!"

  Koroll choked on his own gasp. "Dead? All of them?"

  "Two have survived, but they're ill and will take a long time to recover."

  "Wounded?"

  "Poisoned."

  "What?"

  "We've been able to piece together what happened, based on the priests' examination of Daroll's corpse and the testimony of the two surviving men."

  "Three Into One, how did—"

  "This bandit... What's his name again?"

  "Josarian."

  "Ah. Yes." Borell frowned. "He stole a supply of poison—meant for our arrows—from some outpost. The theft was never reported because everyone there was killed and the place was burned to the ground."

  "Yes, that is his usual—"

  "The filthy peasant's native village was found to have been abandoned when Daroll arrived there with well over one hundred men. Suspecting a trap, for apparently eighty men had already been lost in an attack on the town, Daroll set up sentries, sent out search parties, and took all the precautions one would certainly hope he'd take after such a blunder."

  Koroll held his breath, uncertain if Borell knew who had sent those eighty men to their deaths.

  "There were no disturbances, however. Daroll then decided to use the village as his base for hunting down the outlaw, and he set up camp there." Borell ground his teeth together. "A day later, of course, the men's waterskins were all empty, so they started drawing water from the central fountain."

  "And the gods grew thirsty," Koroll whispered, sinking into a chair without asking permission.

  "The water was poisoned. Not enough to kill instantly. Josarian's no fool—he knew only a few would drink the water if the men who drank it suddenly died. It took five days for the first one to die, by which time all the men and horses..." Borell's shoulders slumped. "It was too late for them."

  "How did two survive?"

  "They were messengers sent back here on the third day after arriving in Emeldar. They fell ill in the mountains, and it took them many days to recover enough strength to continue the journey on foot—their horses were dead or stolen by then, we're not sure which. They stayed at one of those... Sanctuaries. The women there didn't let them die, but several shallaheen accepted payment from the two helpless men for messages which were, of course, never delivered to Shaljir."

  "This is..." Koroll couldn't summon words big enough to describe such a disaster. He was already losing count of how many Valdani Josarian had killed.

  "There's more," Borell said.

  "More?"

  "You've been locked up a long time." Borell went on to describe the scope of Josarian's recent crimes, which included robbing a grain shipment at Garabar which he then, incredible as it sounded, distributed to five shallah villages. Next, he had attacked a company of Outlookers carrying tribute for the Emperor from Adalian. No one had any idea where the gold, crops, and livestock had gone, but rumor suggested that he had distributed that, too. "Thus ensuring the loyalty of the shallaheen," Borell said.

  "Yes, their loyalty is his shield, and he knows it," Koroll murmured, overwhelmed by what had happened during his imprisonment.

  "They've started following his example, too," Borell continued. "Riots, theft, attacks on our priests and on any Outlooker foolhardy enough to leave his outpost alone."

  "The shallaheen will not betray Josarian, Eminence. We must find him without their help. We must devote all our resources to stopping him."

  "I agree. So you can imagine my surprise when I returned home from Liron to learn that not only has Shaljir been deprived of its military governor, but the Commander of Cavasar is absent from his district, too—and in prison!" Borell studied him with a coldly assessing gaze. "Tell me what happened here, Koroll."

  No one had been present when Koroll had reported events in Cavasar to Daroll, and now Daroll was dead. Who except he and Myrell knew the truth now? Who else could testify with absolute certainty that this mess was not of Daroll's making? Now the Three revealed his destiny to him; now Their favor was finally made apparent.

  "Your pardon, Eminence. I blame myself," he said humbly. "If only I had pressed Commander Daroll harder when this disaster first began. If only I had risked his ire and been more insistent when requesting help."

  "How long ago did this disaster begin," Borell asked sharply. "And why wasn't I informed?"

  Koroll feigned surprise. "But surely, Eminence... I mean, he said it was your ruling, after consultation with him, that we must not attribute too much importance to one lone bandit who had managed to murder a couple of Outlookers while smuggling—"

  "What?" Borell sputtered.

  I have him, Koroll thought triumphantly. I have him!

  By the time he was done reciting a creative account of recent events, Koroll had managed to make Daroll responsible for Myrell's actions and the appalling losses at Britar, as well as the death of eighty of Koroll's men in Emeldar. He made sure that every bad decision appeared to have come from Daroll, and he convinced Borell that he himself had feared the ramifications of Josarian's attacks from the start but had been unable to make Daroll see this as anything more than the pranks of one impudent peasant—a view which could be attributed to the arrogant young aristocrat without much stretching.

  "I am not a military man, Koroll," Borell said when the devastating account was complete, "and we cannot wait for a new appointee from Valda. This problem is too serious, the danger too immediate."

  Borell arose and summoned an Outlooker to his side. The man brought him the Seal of Shaljir, the symbol of the highest military office in Sileria, which had been taken from Daroll's corpse. Koroll's heart pounded with elation and his mouth went dry as he gazed upon the golden, jewel-embedded seal.

  "Commander Koroll," Borell said, omitting the lengthy ceremonial opening such an occasion would usually call for. "As the Emperor's eyes, ears, and right hand in Sileria, under the powers granted me by His Radiance for use in times of war, famine, and plague, I hereby name you Military Commander of Shaljir and its district, and t
hus High Commander of Sileria, with all of the powers, privileges, and responsibilities inherent in that office."

  Borell slipped the heavy golden chain over Koroll's head, letting it slide down until the full weight of the Seal of Shaljir hung from his neck.

  Mine, Koroll thought, touching the longed-for symbol of power and prosperity with trembling hands. Mine.

  "I thank you for this profound honor, Eminence," he said, his voice rich with triumph. "And I assure you that I will not fail you, His Radiance, or the Empire."

  "See that you don't." Borell's attention was diverted by a servant who entered the counsel hall in a hurry. "Yes?"

  "There's a messenger, sent by Torena Elelar. Will you receive him, Your Eminence?"

  "From Elelar?" Borell's whole countenance changed, the steely eyes softening with pleasure, the dark scowl lightening with anticipation. "Yes, of course. Send him right in."

  The servant bowed and hurried back out. Borell cast a dismissive glance at Koroll. "Surely you have immediate duties to attend to, Commander. I suggest we meet again after you've had time to review the current situation and formulate a military strategy for dealing with this murdering, thieving scoundrel."

  "Certainly, Eminence. Considering the serious nature of the situation, I suggest that by this evening I should be able to propose—"

  "No, not this evening," Borell said, smiling slightly as a Silerian servant entered the hall and bowed respectfully. "I expect to be... quite occupied this evening."

  Chapter Twelve

  With a hollow heart, Tansen gazed down at the body of the assassin he had just slain. This one had been more experienced than the first one: older, shrewder, and far more skilled. Tansen had killed him quickly, wanting to get it over with. This one had even hinted that he knew why Kiloran had once sworn a bloodvow against Tansen—knew and approved. This one had made memories come tumbling back as inexorably as water flowing downhill—memories which Tansen fought as determinedly as had just fought the assassin.

  Nonetheless, the memories came, just as pain came with the cut of a shir, no matter how one tried to ignore it. For the shir was no ordinary blade, and these were no ordinary memories.

  For a moment, Tansen stood again on the southern shores of Sileria, the wind high and chill, the sea pounding violently against the rocks, the night shadowed and cruel beneath a dark-moon sky. Yes, for a moment, he stood there again, his tear-blurred eyes gazing down not upon the corpse of another nameless assassin, but upon the lifeless body of the man whose name Tansen had not spoken aloud since his boyhood—which had ended forever that very night. For just one moment, he saw again the face of the first man he had ever killed: a man who had trusted him—even loved him. And for a painful moment, Elelar's horrified screams filled the air once again: What have you done? Sweet Dar, what have you DONE?

  Tansen drew a shallow, shaky breath and looked away, crushing the pain, silencing the memories. He flipped the blood off his blades, then wiped them carefully before sheathing them, thinking that he must clean them later. Then he turned away, avoiding the men's eyes as he brushed past them, seeking solitude.

  "And what shall we tell the next one who comes looking for you, roshah?" Zimran snapped. "Whose liver do you suppose he'll cut out if you are not here? Josarian's? Mine? Amitan's?"

  Struck by the venom in the man's voice, Tansen whirled to face him. The rest of the men watched warily, their expressions grim. More than forty of Josarian's men, those with nowhere else to go, lived up here in the Dalishar Caves now. More than a hundred others who had joined Josarian's bloodfeud still lived with their families, unknown and unsought by the Valdani so far. Ready to fight whenever called, they made up a growing network of useful informants and convenient hiding places.

  Realizing that Zimran's growing hostility toward him had finally found an outlet and that it would be pointless to postpone this confrontation, Tansen stepped back into the center of the circle the men had formed around him and the assassin.

  "The next one," he said, "will come only for me, as this one did. Kiloran will not be satisfied with your liver or anyone else's."

  "Oh, and assassins never make mistakes? Or kill out of anger or frustration? The next one won't think it expedient to kill your friends and allies if you—"

  "Zimran—" Josarian interrupted.

  "You are blinded by him!" Zimran shouted at his cousin. "You're so impressed by his swords and his fancy fighting and his foreign travels that you don't see that he will get us all killed!"

  "I am impressed by his courage, his loyalty, and his honor," Josarian said firmly. "And so should you be. Who held off the Outlookers when they made a surprise attack at our backs while we robbed their wage shipment on the road from Cavasar? Who stole the horses at Morven so the Outlookers there couldn't pursue us after we looted—"

  "And who has led an assassin straight to us?" Zimran snapped. "Do you think we can fight the Valdani and the Society?"

  "No one can fight the Society," Falian said. "Even the Valdani cannot win against them."

  Josarian whirled to face him. "There will be no—"

  "Enough, Josarian," Tansen said quietly. "If Zimran and others here have something to say, let them say it."

  "Then I have something to say, too," Josarian insisted. "I will not—"

  "No," Tansen said. "You cannot make them trust me. Each man makes that choice for himself."

  Looking unhappy about it, Josarian finally nodded his agreement. "Then I will say only this. I trust Tansen and will continue to do so. The rest of you... must speak your minds and follow your hearts." He turned and strode out of the circle of men surrounding Tansen and Zimran, disappearing from view.

  "I stand with Tansen," Emelen said, putting physical distance between himself and Zimran. "Regardless of who's looking for him, or why."

  The days Tansen and Emelen had spent together, poisoning the precious water in Emeldar, awaiting the Valdani invasion, and traveling back to Dalishar, had forged their friendship. But Emelen, Tansen had quickly realized, had more courage and wit than most men; a fitting choice for Josarian's only sister. Others might be more apt to forget how Tansen had fought by their sides for more than a twin-moon, now that Zimran raised the specter of the Society.

  It was inevitable, Tansen supposed. Most of these men had known and trusted each other all their lives, whereas they had only known him a short time; and shallaheen did not easily trust a stranger, especially not one whose habits were so different and whose past was largely unknown. And, of course, it was dangerous to make friends with any enemy of Kiloran's.

  Although the Valdani didn't yet know where Josarian and his men were hiding, it wasn't surprising that the Society had already found out. Very little happened in Sileria that they didn't know about. The assassin who had come here today in search of Tansen was merely the first. There would be others, many others. No one would care that the nine years had passed; a warrior who had already killed two assassins would now be too big a prize to pass up unless Kiloran himself insisted he be left in peace. Before long, the assassins wouldn't be the only ones looking for Tansen, either; after all, killing a marked man was the surest way to gain entry and initiation into the Honored Society.

  "Why does Kiloran seek you?" Zimran demanded, his handsome features animated with anger.

  "That is between me and Kiloran."

  "You ask for our trust—"

  "I ask for nothing. Trust can only be given freely, never demanded or—"

  "—yet you give us none of yours!"

  "—begged for."

  Amitan stepped forward. "Zimran is right. If we are to trust you, we have a right to know why the most powerful waterlord in the world wants you dead. If you're going to bring us trouble with the Society, we deserve to know why."

  There were murmurs of agreement, nodding heads, suspicious stares.

  "If he says it's between him and Kiloran—" Emelen began.

  "No, Emelen," Lann argued. "We deserve to know if he did someth
ing dishonorable, something—"

  "I took something from Kiloran," Tansen said suddenly, surprising himself as much as the others. Seeing their expectant expressions, he added, "Something of great value to him. Something he can never get back."

  "Something of great value." Amitan looked doubtfully at Tansen's humble, ill-fitting clothes, seeing no evidence that Tansen still had this thing of value. "Where is it?"

  "Gone," Tansen said. "Lost forever."

  Zimran glared at him. "What was it?"

  "It was..." Tansen hesitated. "Power."

  Zim snorted with disbelief. "You had power that Kiloran wanted?"

  "No. I never had it. I only said that I took it away from him."

  "What power? Water magic?"

  "No." Tansen looked down at the assassin's shir which now lay in the dust. "The power to ruin us all."

  "What power was this?" When Tansen didn't answer, Zimran prodded, "How did you take it?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "I think it is, roshah. Some night an assassin may stick his shir between my ribs because he thinks I'm your friend."

  "I am his friend," Lann said, his voice as loud as ever. "If he says he took something valuable from Kiloran, then I am satisfied with his answer—as long as he didn't hurt women and children." Lann raised a questioning brow as he glanced at Tansen.

  "I did not," Tansen said quietly.

  Lann nodded. "Then I am ready for any killer that comes here, Valdan or assassin."

  "You are a fool," Zimran said harshly, standing his ground when the much larger man made a threatening move toward him. "How long before Kiloran himself decides to deal with Tansen?" This had a noticeable effect on the men. "Who is to say what we face if we keep this roshah among us? An army of assassins, when they get tired of dying at his hands one by one? Or will Kiloran send the White Dragon after us?"

  Emelen scowled. "Now you try to frighten us with children's tales."

  "And you're a fool if you believe it's only a tale," Zimran said. He looked around at the men. "You know how waterlords kill. Everyone knows. If Kiloran can flood a whole village and make the water stop at the very edge of a cliff, if he can turn lakes so cold that Valdani lose their hands when reaching into them for a drink of water, if he can curl rivers back upon themselves and make lakes dry up overnight—"